The war room was tense, the very air charged with discontent. A dozen night creatures paced along the walls, their claws clicking against the stone. Vampires from every corner of the empire stood gathered—cloaked in red, in silver, in shadows—with their sharp tongues ready for blood. At the head of the long, scorched table stood Lord Dracula, his voice calm but final.

“Hector. Isaac. You will lead this war.”

The chamber stirred with murmurs and glares. Among the loudest—

“What?”

Godbrand’s voice rang out, shrill with disbelief and rising fury. His arms flung wide in frustration as he stomped a few steps toward the center of the room, pointing accusingly.

“You're giving the war to the humans? They’re not even vampires!”

He whirled on his heel as Hector and Isaac turned without a word, making their way up the steps toward Dracula’s chambers, robes shifting with every step, their silence far louder than the shouting behind them.

“Hey! Where do you two think you’re going?” Godbrand barked, his voice echoing through the stone. “We’re going to go talk to him,” Hector replied coolly, not bothering to slow down. Godbrand sneered. “Why wouldn’t he want to talk to me, huh? Maybe he wants to talk to someone his own kind.”

Hector paused mid-step, finally turning back over his shoulder—expression calm, almost bored, but voice razor-sharp.

“Godbrand,” he said evenly, “you’ve never met anything you didn’t immediately kill, fuck, or make a boat out of.”

The room fell silent for a beat. Godbrand sputtered, half-outraged, half-stunned. Isaac simply followed Hector, his expression unreadable as always.

The two forge masters disappeared up the stairs, leaving only the echo of Hector’s words behind them—sharp, clinical, and utterly true.